Always On About Blood
by Groonfish
Summary: As a Legionnaire's son, San Kvinchal has always been certain about the purity of his hardy Colovian blood. But when a hard journey to Falkreath becomes a brutal run-in with the Legion, he begins to doubt the purity of his blood in more ways than one.
1. Chapter 1

The night sky was a whirling blizzard. The crunching snow beneath his boots sounded like the Madgod Sheogorath chewing ice, loud and jagged above the howling winds. The gale was so frigid that it felt scalding hot, and he felt as if the skin on his face was about to invert on itself and fall away from the cold. Naively thinking that Bruma was by far the worst of the Jerall Mountains, this man neglected to bring a scarf to wrap his face.

Now he paid dearly.

Reaching the height of the winding pass, he stopped and resituated his fur hat on his head. Scowling, squinting, he stared down into a whirling slide of snow and fog.

"Ruddy Colovian blood, by Stendarr, it's worthless," the Imperial murmured to himself. He hiked up his pack and set down the perilous descent into the fog of that pale pass.

He descended further and further down, and yet the snow hardly cleared at all. The sun began to rise to his right, casting everything in an awful, indecipherable placid light. The fog was still thick and the sun was hardly more than dim.

Over all the whistling wind and blowing snow, the man didn't see the crouched figures that hid behind spiny, snow-covered bushes and in deep embankments along the side of the road. He only barely saw the hazy gray figures down below on the path, thickly built, armored – Nords, by their profiles.

The Imperial thought, I must be in Skyrim.

At that moment, someone grabbed him from behind. He froze, the unfamiliar gloves hauling him up and swinging him to the ground. The side of his face smacked the flat stones of the old path and it chilled him to the bone and made his eyes spin.

"One more up here," said the cold voice above him. It had the coastal Colovian lilt of someone who was born around Anvil in the Gold Coast, but that lilt was bitter from the frost, and the roll of the tongue was sharp. Probably a soldier. That didn't make sense.

Reeling on the ground he heard an incomprehensible, shouted response from below. There was commotion, too. He shuddered at the close sound of zipping rope, unspooled from a coil, and shuddered again as his gloves were yanked off and tossed aside into the snow. The cold ate his bare hands. He felt the pressure of the rope wrapping around his wrists, and the soldier cinched it tight, and hauled him to his feet and spun him around and set him marching down the pass. He saw below the grey silhouettes of the Nords, with more soldiers leading them, further down the baleful slope and into the fog.

"Who," the prisoner stammered, his teeth chattering uncontrollably, "who are you people?"

"We're the Imperial Legion, Stormcloak," the soldier said hotly at his ear, his voice still muffled by the wind, "Don't recognize us when we have the upper hand?"

Sanedlos Kvinchal, son of a Chorrol Legionnaire, understood suddenly and clearly.

He was in a very bad way.

The soldier prodded him to move faster – they started to catch up with the others – Stormcloaks, he understood.

"Arkay, take my soul," he said to the howling wind.

It responded with a cruel, icy screech, and Sanedlos took that as the God's answer.


	2. Chapter 2

The snow had turned cold and wet, and it was sticking to everything. The Legionnaires led their Stormcloak quarry down the path, with an out-of-place San Kvinchal bringing up the rear. Breath plumed in the air. No one spoke.

The prisoners were tied together with the same long rope, looped around each man's bindings, stringing them into a line gang. Sanedlos knew this procedure well – he had seen the Legion parade Hanien Birgot's gang through Chorrol when he was a boy.

Hanien and his men had been strung up a ways outside the main gate, but Sanedlos' father hadn't allowed him out of the city for a week. Eventually the bodies rotted so bad that the county constables took them down, but the night before, young Sanedlos had snuck out and investigated. He saw the corpses, one whole score, hanging and bloating there in the torchlight with nooses round their black-bruised necks. He remembered coming back into town pale faced, and having nightmares of being hanged for months.

Now, in the line gang, he impulsively reached up to rub his throat, but found his wrists bound by the rope. He tugged at it bleakly. The Nord ahead made to turn his head, but stopped and, after a moment, looked back to the front without a word.

It wasn't long before they passed a weary old farmhouse, snow covering the roof, a little stable jutting off the side. It reminded Sanedlos of places he'd seen in the Colovian Highlands. The yard was cluttered with wet hay bales and rusty farm tools. It looked abandoned. Yet suddenly, a withered old mare, nearly hidden under the stable's roof, began to rear and buck and neigh in outrage.

The procession stopped abruptly, the presiding Legionnaires turning to look. Sanedlos saw the nearest lay soldier hand on his sword's hilt.

The horse snapped its rope collar and set off into the yard, tramping in the dirt and thrashing its head. Behind it a man emerged, clad in burlap rags, eyes sunken and bruised – a scrappy, dirty Nord. He called the horse a fetcher and smacked its face, and the horse responded judiciously by butting him in the chest with its forehead, sending him toppling into a frozen water trough.

Two of the Legionnaires nodded to each other. They tromped into the bleak old yard, grabbing the horse thief under his arms and hauling him up and past the mare, which stood motionless, watching. They dragged him out through the gap in the fence, and in short order they had fastened him onto the end of the line gang, just behind the Colovian, San Kvinchal. The Nord grumbled and cursed at a multitude of the Eight Divines, Tiber Septim, Shor, and of course the Imperial Legion, still blathering on as they set back off down the path.

The snow kept falling. Sanedlos' mind went with it, coiling in on itself, thinking. He realized and accepted that he was going nowhere good, and that he had little say in the matter. He considered stopping the procession and protesting his heritage, informing the Legion soldiers of his rich Heartland blood and explaining the mistake, but he was well aware that he had come across the border in a less-than-legal fashion, and that a group of bitter Legionnaires would likely assume it to be a lie regardless.

Besides, a Kvinchal didn't beg.

So San Kvinchal allowed himself to be led down the winding mountain slope, bound up within a line gang of Stormcloak traitors and one rancid horse thief who refused to quiet down, all on their way to some grizzly fate.

It was no good, Sanedlos thought, being on the wrong side of the Imperial Legion.


	3. Chapter 3

The journey further down the mountain saw a fast change in the weather. The snow and the fog burned off and left the path mottled in olive drab and copper. Butterflies flickered between bushes with bright orange wings. The wind blew with the smell of mountain heather and morning dew.

It wasn't long before the convoy of prisoners stopped once more. Sanedlos raised his head and peered down the line.

Two carriages were halted at the roadside, with a handful of Legionnaires present, waiting on the approaching group. A man, who appeared to be in charge kicked off from where he was leaning and walked up stiffly to meet the soldier holding point.

"That's really him?" the metal-armored Legionnaire wondered at the soldier, rubbing his hard-lined jaw. His voice was loud. He stood like a column and kept his hand at his face for a moment, and then unexpectedly let out a sharp, triumphant laugh. "Zenithar, General Tullius'll let us retire here and now for this! Stlubo, old boy, you've done it!"

The Imperial stepped forward, almost out of sight, and muttered something to the prisoner at the front, too low for Sanedlos to hear, before he turned back to the Legionnaire named Stlubo and shook the man's shoulders approvingly.

The assembly descended into a bustle of hasty preparation. One of the Legionnaires came up the line, cutting the long rope with his gladius. He reached Sanedlos and stopped, eyeing up the Colovian's distinctive face for a moment. Then he frowned.

"Blood traitor," he spat, and cut the line.

San's wrists were still bound, but the remaining cord dangled down like a tail, swinging and hitting his legs as the Legion processed them and loaded them onto the carriages. The armored Imperial pulled somebody aside – a Nord in a thick, black fur coat. The man's mouth was gagged, and San wondered why. Perhaps, he thought, he was an influential war leader, and they didn't want him to speak and direct his men. Yes, Sanedlos thought, that was probably it.

A soldier ordered him into the carriage. Sanedlos nodded compliantly, and clambered up into the back, moving all the way down until he was sitting across from a Stormcloak soldier. The man had a weary look, as if he hadn't slept in days. A tousled mop of straw colored hair, twisted into war braids, framed his worn, bearded face. The Nord stared, his eyes piercing and calm, in an odd sort of way. Sanedlos, feeling reasonably uncomfortable, looked away.

The horse thief came next – he sat next to the staring Nord, still grumbling. Then came the gagged man in the cloak. A clutch of soldiers gathered around the back and watched, as the metal-armored Imperial and a gallant-looking Nord Legionnaire hefted the prisoner into the back. The gagged man sat and bent over, hands clasped forcibly between his knees by the rope, head bowed, as if he was praying. The tail gate was swung shut and latched and in a flash, it seemed, they were away.

The carriage clattered down the path, weaving through an old birch forest and the ruddy foothills of the mountain.

"It's going to be a long ride," the driver called over his shoulder, "nobody'll mind if you drift off for a while, I'm sure." His voice had the throaty cadence of someone born in Bruma.

Sanedlos thought it was a ridiculous idea, to fall asleep at a time like that, but with a few more bumps and shudders of the wooden carriage, he found himself nodding off against one of the back panels, eyes going dark, before he slipped into a tenuous sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Working on nailing my writing style for this type of story. I think I'm getting close, but feel free to review and let me know what I could do better. Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

Sanedlos Kvinchal swilled a glass snifter of amber-colored alcohol, sitting at the bar in Bruma's Jerall View Inn. The first drink was spicy on his throat, and he closed his eyes and breathed in his nose at the feeling. The taste of alcohol was something he quite enjoyed, and even better, he recognized this alcohol as being distilled and aged in his hometown of Chorrol.

That haggard Nord barkeep hadn't understood what he meant when he asked for a Colovian brandy, and he frowned as he swallowed his pride and used the other name. "Cyrodiilic Brandy" was what people from the other provinces called it, because people from other provinces thought an Imperial was an Imperial, and there was no distinction at all. Still, the brandy warmed his spirits in the frigid Jerall Mountains. So that was all right.

Sanedlos took another drink and looked around the inn. It was empty except for him and the barkeep, surprisingly, but it was also three in the morning, and even the hardiest Nord had likely retreated to bed. The inn was festooned with gold banners, in honor of the reigning Viscount's birthday celebration that would be occurring later in the afternoon. The Viscount was, naturally, a Nibenean, hailing from the hereditary line of Carvains that were so embroiled with dissolving Imperial politics, although admittedly for a Nibenean Marcius Carvain was one of the more practical and competent ones, but he still wasn't half a Colovian.

Sanedlos' uncle Ristain was like that, except worse. A Colovian by blood but a Nibenean by character. He was born in Chorrol, just like San's father, Piner, but while Piner Kvinchal signed on with the Fighter's Guild, his brother Ristain sought higher education with the Synod.

There was no shame in being a mage, at least not inherently. Had Ristain chosen to join the ranks of the Imperial Legion's Battlemages, the family would have been very proud. But to join the Synod! San thought that "the council of overly philosophical and confused mages" was a more apt name. At the time that Uncle Ristain had joined, the solitary focus of the Synod was to recategorize the Schools of Magicka, so as to do away with Mysticism. That particular school was, apparently, less mind-numbingly incoherent when called by a different name.

Ristain stayed with the Synod for a long time. He was even accepted into the New Adytum, built in the ruins of the old Arcane University, and was apparently ranked with some high honor, and led the expeditions into Skyrim when the Synod switched gears and went archaeological. Now, though, he had retired, at least from the Synod, and last word said that he was living in the dreadful Skyrim town of Falkreath. Sanedlos couldn't imagine why anyone would willingly stay in that old rimy wasteland.

It came to pass now – and he drained the last swig of his brandy as he lamented – that it was his responsibility to travel across the border, to Falkreath, to deliver a parcel from his father. Of course, they couldn't just hire a courier service, because Piner Kvinchal specifically requested that the letter be delivered by a family member's hand. Sanedlos' two older brothers, Antorhys and Kenelus, were already in Skyrim combatting the bastard Stormcloaks, so they were out of the question. A raw deal, Sanedlos thought.

Somewhere in the fog of his alcohol-retarded mind, he decided that he should retire for the evening. Or more accurately, it would be called the morning. He stood up from the barstool shakily and slapped a few septims down on the bar on his way out. The old stairs creaked as he labored up them, and he held on to the wall for support because, though he wouldn't readily admit it, he was properly sloshed. He'd had more than just one drink.

When he entered his room, it seemed like he was looking at the bed one moment, and laying on top of it the next. The mattress was filled with feathers, but covered with furs, and the combined warming effects of both the bed and the sauce that was thick in his blood ended his evening in short order.


	5. Chapter 5

Sanedlos woke up in the early afternoon, lying face down and sideways on the bed. He felt like he was filled with cotton, especially his mouth, which almost seemed to have no spit left in it. He tried to swallow. It took three tries.

He was still fully dressed from the night before, including his boots, which made his feet chafe. Slowly, he pushed himself up and rolled over on his back, staring at the crosshatched wooden ceiling. He tried to remember where he was, and it took him a good while, before the cold began to chill his arms and legs, and his skin stood on end. He was in Bruma.

Sanedlos sat up on the edge of the bed and felt his head swirl. He looked around at the room slowly, and watched it change shape and blur slightly before deciding on a proper appearance. There was a metal pitcher of water and a wooden cup on the end table – Sanedlos deduced it was left there by the innkeeper that morning. So much for privacy, he thought.

He poured the water into the cup, shakily, spilling a few splashes onto the end table as he tilted the pitcher back and set it down. He brought the cup to his mouth and swallowed it in one continuous drink, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"What am I even doing?" he said to the empty room. His voice surprised him, it was so dry.

He filled the cup again and drank.

Sanedlos readjusted his clothing and scratched the back of his neck, yawning as he stood up from the edge of the bed. He swayed on his feet. His footsteps were heavy as he left the room, crossed the hallway and descended the stairs into the main room of the Jerall View Inn, towards the sound of raucous festivities.

The large stone fire pit was blazing in the center of the main hall, which was packed with people. Everyone was bedecked with yellow scarves and wraps, with faces marked with some kind of yellow war paint, and it took Sanedlos a moment to relate that it was the Viscount's birthday. Somebody raised a toast, "to the Carvains!" and a host of people cheered and shouted it back, before gorging themselves on expensive berry wine and mead. In a far corner of the inn a group of cantankerous old Nords booed and hissed, but they were drowned out by the festivities.

Sanedlos clumsily worked his way through the crowd and pushed out the door onto the cold Bruma battlements. The town out-of-doors was practically abandoned and quiet except for the celebratory din from the Jerall View and another, seedier tavern across town.

The wind gusting through the snow flurries made the air almost seem visible. Sanedlos had ascended the steps to the stony Bruma keep with careful steps, and he could feel his footsteps threating to throw him to the ground at any moment. The snow was trampled and messy after a horde of people undoubtedly ascended to the inn earlier that day. Sanedlos wasn't quite sure where he was going, but he finally settled on the idea that he would look around the city a little while everyone else was busy drinking.

It was as he reached the top of the battlements that he caught sight of the statue. Unwavering stone, carved in the shape of a man, sword aloft. A majestic example of carving, in the rugged, classic style of the Nords, Sanedlos hated to admit. It was the statue of a Hero. Sanedlos kept his distance, so that he could see up to the statue's face. It was frozen in the midst of a battle cry, and yet his eyes were calm and icy, as if his heart was somehow not in it. Sanedlos was half of mind to brush it off as a sculptor's error, and yet something made him think it was accurate.

The man was the Savior of Bruma, the Champion of Cyrodiil. He had a name, but Sanedlos' memory failed him in remembering it. It had been almost two hundred years since the Champion had lived, and yet the statue was as well preserved as the day it was carved.

"He was quite the hero, eh?" said a voice behind Sanedlos. The Imperial startled.

The Nord was towering and tattooed and grey, his face slung with a thick beard. His arms were bare despite the biting cold, and chiseled much like the looming statue.

"Do all you Nords do that? Interrupt?" Sanedlos said bitterly.

"Ah. You're an Imperial, then, I take it?" the Nord said back with a deep timbre.

"A proud Colovian, thank you."

"One could mistake you for a short-statured Nord, Cyrodiil."

"Pah, as if."

The Nord nodded silently, and walked past Sanedlos towards the base of the statue. Sanedlos felt compelled to do the same, and although it was because he had been planning to do so regardless, he felt a twinge of distaste, since it would appear to any onlooker that he was only following in the tattooed Nord's footsteps.

He went anyways. The Nord was kneeling down to set something on the ground. Sanedlos barely heard the clank of metal on stone as he approached through the snow. He watched as the Nord stood, his tattooed arms bristling as he left a forged steel axe at the foot of the statue, amidst a collection of septims, small bottles of potion, and a few soggy old books, and other things as well.

As Sanedlos arrived a gust of wind caught a basket of mountain flowers and sent it flying into the air, turning it upside down and scattering the flowers into the early morning sky. The basket fell and bounced down the hillside a ways away. The Nord tracked it silently with his eyes.

He turned and started to leave.

"Pay your respects as you will, Cyrodiil," he said, "No doubt, the Nine will hear them."

Sanedlos stared up at the statue for a long while in silence. The blowing wind tossed mountain flowers to and fro, and the snow began to fall harder and cover the forged axe. Finally, Sanedlos turned and returned to the Jerall View, having left no respects and stubbornly thinking nothing but how paying respects to a man would do him no good. He was suddenly aware that his face was set into a frown, and he loosened his jaw as he walked. Reaching the inn, he cast a hasty glance at the pedestal out front of the chapel, which now was adorned with a blazing open firepit, where a statue had once stood.

A snowbird crowed off in the distance.

Sanedlos turned away and went inside.


	6. Chapter 6

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are th-"

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with."

The Nord interrupted, and stepped up to the chopping block willingly. Sanedlos thought he was foolish.

Maybe the heathen Nords admired such bravado, but the Legion admired efficiency. This idiot was speeding up the execution, and the look in the eyes of that icy Legion captain showed relief that she could hurry up the distasteful process.

Sanedlos stood in the line with a handful of traitorous Nords, all wearing the bluegray-draped chainmail jerkin of the bastard Stormcloaks; all except for the Stormcloak himself, who wore a coat of black animal fur. His appearance was like a great bear, but his mouth was gagged with a wide strap of burlap cloth, wrapped again and again. It made his head look like that of a war casualty sans the blood, sporting a dislocated jaw, maybe, or else some other illness on the lower portion of his face. The sore truth, though, was that the man had a voice like something awful. Ulfric Stormcloak commanded that contrived Nord magic; Sanedlos couldn't remember what it was called. They said he shouted the High King of Skyrim to death, but to kill with nothing but a booming voice was… preposterous.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"

The air shook with a heavy, leaden thud. Sanedlos turned back to look at the chopping block and saw that the braggart Nord was missing his head. Blood surged from his open neck onto the wooden chopping block and erupted with steam in the cold air. The basket on the other side was rocking with something inside; it was presumably the severed head. The body slumped to the side with a kick of the captain's boot.

"Next, the traitor," she spat.

Sanedlos felt a hand on the small of his back, shoving him forward. The guards jeered and hissed. Their faces were flooded with contempt. Sanedlos began to walk, slowly and hesitantly at first, but then he righted his back, set his arms at his sides, and approached the block proudly.

He looked the captain right in her stern, unforgiving face, and a moment of doubt passed over him. He could end it all right here. He could make his case. It would be easy, really. He could convince them. He could see in his mind her face turning, realizing the mistake and taking him aside and sparing him of such a cruel and ironic fate. Yet he realized that the time for confession was long past. The stubbornness of the Empire wouldn't risk breaking their momentum now.

"A true Colovian doesn't hesitate in the face of death," he said, and that was that.

"You dare call upon that blood, traitor?" the captain said, and booted him in the back. Sanedlos fell to his knees and his head struck the block with a thud. It made his eyes spin and his temples thump out a booming heartbeat.

"Make it good," the captain ordered.

Sanedlos drew in a sharp breath. He could feel the blood as it soaked the side of his head; it was still warm from the Stormcloak's gushing demise. He looked at the sky, past the hooded visage of the executioner and the looming castle keep. They began to blur in his eyes.

The sky was grey and cloudy, and the wind seemed to be howling at him from Aetherius. In fact, it almost seemed to be roaring, like some great beast in the heavens was laughing at his impending doom. The Gods were chiding him.

Suddenly a black shape cut through the clouds, jagged and spear-like. Sanedlos blinked, and his eyes refocused on the executioner's gloved hands, tensing on the haft of a great axe. The blackness darted across the sky a second time, slower and closer. It almost appeared to be a bird, but it was impossibly large. The axe was hefted up behind the executioner's head. In a second it would fall, and that would be the end of it. The shape whisked by once more.

San closed his eyes. His thoughts went blank except for the sound of his own, fast breathing.

He felt the impact as it happened, and it was as if the world was being ripped in two. He felt himself being thrown aside, heat washing over his face like a furnace, yet he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. He was rolling across the ground. Sharp stones jabbed into his ribs, his arms and legs, the back of his skull. He gasped and opened his eyes.

He wasn't dead.

That was when the sky exploded.

The first meteor came down and cut a horse in two. The back half slumped instantly. The front legs buckled and sent the screaming beast face-first into the ground. The second meteor hit the executioner square in the back as he attempted to crawl away; his body crumpled with the impact. The third swallowed an entire cottage in a ball of fire.

After that, Sanedlos didn't see. He leapt to his feet with unreal speed, adrenaline pumping through his veins. The carriages that had brought them into town were close enough to touch, and Sanedlos staggered backwards as they suddenly were on fire.

"This way!" someone shouted, and Sanedlos ran that way.

A meteor hit in front of him. He dodged to the side, almost falling, and felt a blast of heat strike him. He pushed himself back up with his hand and kept running. Another explosion rocked the ground behind him and he stumbled again, the surge of hot air consuming him, but he kept running. A woman let out an earsplitting scream and then nothing. A body tumbled from the sky and crashed through a burning roof. Sanedlos was almost to the keep. The door was held open. He felt a cold heat trailing him. He leapt through the waiting doorway.

Suddenly, somebody was above him, beating him with what sounded like a heavy rug. Sanedlos' brain was molasses. His jaw started to tense up and his vision darkened and blurred. The beating continued, but then the rug was draped over his back. The figure came around and knelt by his face. A large man, but Sanedlos couldn't see much past the smog covering his eyes. The man tilted Sanedlos' head up and poured something into his mouth. It tasted green and yeasty. He felt the grainy thick texture as it flowed towards his throat. He coughed. The man pulled his head back and rubbed his throat, and he swallowed it down.

Immediately the icy pain was replaced with a pleasantly warm sensation, rushing up his spine and tingling the skin of his back. It itched something fierce, but the man held San's hand back when he went to scratch. He shook his head.

"You'll have scarring," he said in a thick accent, "but it will have to do for now. You'll live, is what's important."

"We need to move!" someone else shouted. The rug was pulled off Sanedlos' back, and someone helped him to his feet. Stormcloaks. Ulfric Stormcloak. The great bear of a man stood peering out one of the windows, his face glowing with heat, the wrapped gauze around his face dangerously absent.

"Up the tower," he yelled, "there is too much fire outside."

Sanedlos was suddenly aware of how much noise was around. It was practically deafening. Everything was a blur. One of the Stormcloaks grabbed him by the shoulder and started walking him towards the stairway. Sanedlos didn't remember climbing, but suddenly the entire side of the tower was gone and everything was on fire again. He barely remembered jumping, but suddenly he was thirty feet below on a thatched roof that was miraculously not on fire.

Then suddenly it _was _on fire.

The floor came too fast as he rolled off the roof and into the building proper, and the boards squeaked as he hit them like dead weight. But he was up and moving again, this time down another drop onto a large table, which buckled out from underneath him abruptly and sent him toppling to the floor again. It was covered in ash and soot, banded with harsh daylight. The wall ahead looked as if it had been split open by a thousand axes. Sanedlos clambered up again and broke through the splintered boards, out onto the cobblestone street just as the great black beast swooped overhead and scorched a nearby group of screaming villagers and left them blackened and wiry and lifeless.

A burly legionnaire hauled a young, sobbing boy from the pile of bodies just as the beast came around for a second pass, and only just escaped the gout of flame that left the charred bodies as a mere pile of ash.

"Prisoner," a voice said, "come with me if you want to stay alive."

Sanedlos heard the words "stay alive" and ran towards the voice. The broad back of a man in legion armor was ahead of him, and it brought a small, insignificant comfort. The beast was back, burning everything in sight, and then they were running again. One moment a soldier was standing on the stone walls; the next, he was opened up slantways and falling apart like a coil of rope. Another dead body came slamming into the pavement, bursting like a melon.

Even after he was pulled through a stone doorway, collapsing to the floor and scrabbling away from the heat, and even while the legionnaire was talking in calmer tones and looking around the room, the only words Sanedlos heard were "fire" and "burns" and "dragon."


End file.
